Liverpool away, last match of the 80-81 season – just the place to go needing to win to stay up, as they had just won the championship for the umpteenth time. A big enough problem in itself, but nothing to what faced me (or so I thought). The economic climate prevalent in Thatcher’s Britain meant that I was working in Peterhead, but I needed to be at that game. I couldn’t very well come home for the weekend only to disappear to Liverpool for the match – well, not without the best legal advice that money could buy (and I couldn’t afford). How was I to appease my football –hating (i.e. born in Newcastle) wife, and still give the lads my much-needed support?

“Daffodil” I ventured (always a safe bet) over the ‘phone “I’ll be home this weekend, and we’re going out for the day” “Oh lovely” she replied “where?”

We caught the 8 o’clock from Darlo, two among a horde of already well-fuelled red and whites. By York, our carriage was a chicken run for females going to and from the toilet, as they were cordially invited to display their charms for the lads. Her majesty was bursting for the relief of British Rail’s finest mobile rest rooms, but steadfastly refused to move from her seat and risk attracting any attention.

Two hours later she staggered, cross-eyed and knock-kneed, into the ladies’ at Liverpool Lime street station, the not-so-happy holder of the new world record for bladder control.

We travelled across to Anfield by service bus, with my wife loudly asking, to the amusement of the scousers filling all of the other seats, why I had stuffed my scarf up my shirt. Into Anfield, and we took our places amongst the tightly packed Roker army, ready to roar on God’s children to another season in the top flight. Before the kick off, former Bishop player Bob Paisley received the manager of the year award, to rapturous applause from all around, not least the away end. We hoped that he would return the compliment by instructing his players to perform like a bunch of complete tossers, and ensure we got the couple of points necessary – after all, they didn’t need them.

Five to three, all ready for the biggest kick-off of the season, and the good lady decided that she needed the toilet again. A disgusted scowl spread across my face, but sensing another world record attempt could seriously damage her health, I pointed at a light some twenty feet above us. “Look for that on your way back. I said “I’ll be standing straight under it”. She duly left for her ablutions, and returned safe and well, just before half-time, missing only Howard “hamstring” Gayle rattling our crossbar.

The rest of the game went exactly to plan, with Ferryhill’s finest, Stan Cummins, doing the necessary. In the inevitable surge and crush that followed, as usual when celebrating a goal from a standing start, the wire part of the lovely Linda’s bra was forced through her clothing, hooking itself on the jumper of the bloke in front. This resulted in the subsequent sway catapulting her down the terracing and temporarily out of sight, firmly attached to the back of a rather puzzled Mackem, who thought that his birthday and Christmas had come at once. By the time I’d completed her rescue, and warned off the bloke with the hole in his jumper, the whistle went, and the lads had once again saved themselves at the last hurdle. Bob Paisley allegedly sent a case of celebratory champagne into the Sunderland dressing room – being from Hetton, he knew that our rightful place was in the top division. Anyway, for us the game was over, and we trooped joyfully out of Anfield, survival ensured, bra and contents intact, and Linda’s voice ringing in my ear as she vowed never to set foot in a football ground again.